"It is very certain that something has happened to us,"
said Ben Zoof. "I have occasionally dreamed that I was a swallow
flying over the Montmartre, but I never experienced anything
of this kind before; it must be peculiar to the coast of Algeria."

Servadac was stupefied; he felt instinctively that he was not dreaming,
and yet was powerless to solve the mystery. He was not, however,
the man to puzzle himself for long over any insoluble problem.
"Come what may," he presently exclaimed, "we will make up our minds
for the future to be surprised at nothing."

"Right, captain," replied Ben Zoof; "and, first of all,
let us settle our little score with Count Timascheff."

Beyond the ditch lay a small piece of meadow land, about an acre
in extent. A soft and delicious herbage carpeted the soil,
whilst trees formed a charming framework to the whole.
No spot could have been chosen more suitable for the meeting
between the two adversaries.

Servadac cast a hasty glance round. No one was in sight.
"We are the first on the field," he said.

"Not so sure of that, sir," said Ben Zoof.

"What do you mean?" asked Servadac, looking at his watch, which he had
set as nearly as possible by the sun before leaving the gourbi;
"it is not nine o'clock yet."

"Look up there, sir. I am much mistaken if that is not the sun;"